


Arcturus's End: the tale hidden from history

by FyreAlchemage



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27505087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyreAlchemage/pseuds/FyreAlchemage
Summary: An alternate timeline set away from the main one, here things are slightly off. A mysterious mage, fiftieth of his name; an occasional genius; a Darkness which consumes the Archmage's son; and inconsistencies. And of course blatant idea taking.





	1. Curiosity of the foolish mortal

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go, then. The entirety of Arcturus's End, here. Enjoy it, or don't; I take no offense if you don't.

Opal stones lined the path up to the grand cathedral sitting at the highest point in the Godsland. It was a building made of solid gold, gold created by ancient alchemists whose secrets had been lost to the ravages of Time. Beneath these opals lay diamonds, but not one of the crystals had been seen since the opals were laid there to rest for eternity.  
Within the cathedral, silence dominated everything. No sounds, no beings, no feelings—it was empty, like the Godsland. It was as if the gods had vanished. But how could they, when today was the holiday of Gods’ Feast, a Worldwide celebration performed by all Gharnachians, no matter their nationality. Even the Farlanders took part in it, though they only honored a single god.  
The skies of the Godsland were dark and lifeless, as were the grounds. No matter where one was, the Godsland looked bleak; dead. Something had happened, and yet this place had been this way for generations. Not a mortal soul cared… except for the dvärgar. Even then, only a few dvärglik people noticed their gods missing. Numena, Bluthaz, the Grim Guardian—all were dvärglik gods, and all were gone.

“Argh, why does Lord Filip want us to make chairs?” Des Magna Alkimia asked. “Doesn’t he have enough…? We just made twelve last—”  
“Shut it, village idiot,” Overseer Murk commanded. “You know the lord needs his chairs. He needs lots of things. Complaining workers is not on his list.”  
Des shook his head. The idiocy of some people! Some people were just—well, people were the worst, in his personal and very genius opinion. He was the smartest village idiot, and as such, he went undercover as the stupidest one… to an extent.  
Overseer Murk said with a nod, “Lord Filip wants a table now. Make it. You only, village idiot. No one likes you, so you do it.”  
Murk wasn’t a bad person—he was undercover too. Murk was truly a warlock—someone who commanded the dark magics. From summoning the undead to controlling dreams, Murk did it all. When no one was around, he even spoke to the spirits—though he seemed to enjoy dominating them a bit too much. The occasional object moving by itself proved that.  
As the villagers finished crafting the table and chairs, Lord Filip strode in, dressed in his usual finery. In addition to that, he wore a shining silver crown that appeared to be plucked from off a Queen’s head—a Norra Queen’s head. The only Queen to dwell in Norr was Merrigan, Lady of the Is.  
“Hmm-hm,” Filip said. “You all have done fantastic work, though I must say I am quite disappointed in the amount of tables I see here. I requested two, not one.”  
“Lord Filip, you never said that,” Des complained. “You wanted a table.”  
“Now I want two,” Filip demanded. “Make me my fabulous table, or I will… hm, get a mage in here to fire you all… literally and figuratively! Aha, I am hilarious!” Filip left laughing, and as a good measure threw a knife. It hit the wall, then clattered to the rough stone floor.

“Did you hear, broder?” the Norra newsman called. “Lady Merrigan had the Vinterkrona stolen from her! Syster, did you hear too? Alla hörde du?” Everyone, did you hear?  
“Åh, how horrible,” Katarina the baker said. “The Lady Merrigan must be so disappointed! Syster, did you hear yet that the Vinterkrona of our Lady of Is was stolen?”  
The news spread across the icy reaches of Norr like wildfire would in forested lands. In but an hour, all knew what had happened, and the doors of the Vinterpalats were being knocked on too frequently for the Tre Stora, the Three Great Ones.  
Lord Vindsvept gathered up all the winds and caused them to anger. Guiding them on their way with the Vindflöjt, the Flute of the Winds, they blew all the unwelcome visitors off the doorstep.  
“They shan’t come back soon,” Vindsvept said to the other two Stora, Norrsken and Merrigan, in Norr. Merrigan said, “My Vinterkrona is still missing. Whom stole it?”  
“It was not I, mine sister,” Norrsken said. He held the ancient Flammen av Norrskenet in his hand, its glowing rainbow lights illuminating the dark room. The Flammen av Norrskenet, the Flame of the Northern Lights, was a lamp as old as Norr. It lit the way of the old Norr, those who named themselves förfäder, as they crossed the Pass av Drakar into the lands now known as Norr. Before the förfäder had come here, the land belonged to the snow elves, a distasteful race of beings who still were convinced Norr belonged to them. Their Queen, Frost, had ventured to Norr long ago only to be laughed at for her vandring, her walking, as the snow elves walked quite strangely.  
“We must get our lönnmördare to investigate for us,” Merrigan said. Norrsken pointed out, “But… I thought he left us. That, and he said he never wished to work with us again.”  
“I will find him, and I will bring him here personally so that we may discuss our plan,” Vindsvept said. “This is important. The future of our lands depend upon it. I, Vindsvept, shall retrieve this man for you, Merrigan.”  
The Tre Stora nodded in agreement. Vindsvept would fetch the lönnmördare, the greatest assassin and spy in all of Norr.


	2. Every mortal has their weakness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no shame in taking names.

The old dvärg played his final card, then attacked with all he had. His opponent, however, was unmoved. After the dvärg had had his turn, his opponent Rythian, the legendary Champion at Arcana, cast a firebolt spell. As the dvärg burned to a crisp, Rythian claimed his winnings and left the table, taking the dvärg’s collection of cards and his own.  
All those in the tavern clapped as the Champion rose. He approached several other tables, and soon the tavern became quite empty. They’d come back in a day—that was how Arcana was. Once one was killed, they would resurrect. Rythian had created that rule and made sure it was followed. There were no true deaths anymore, not unless one initiated a deathmatch.  
“How much have you earned, my friend?” Bard the innkeeper asked Rythian as he approached. “I’m sure you have enough for what you want now. Well, the artifact seller is sitting over there, next to that rather fancy looking—oh, Lord Vindsvept is here!”  
Rythian placed ten kronor onto the table, and Bard took them away. He put in their place two icy glasses of the cold isvin, a drink favorited by all Norr. Its recipe had been concocted at the Nordica brewery by Meadmaker Jö, now deceased. The Cult of Jor’a had attempted to resurrect him, though, but they’d failed.  
Rythian took the isvin over to the table with Lord Vindsvept and the artifact seller sitting there. To the artifact seller, he said, “I present to you this isvin as an offering so that you may grant me the thing I desire.”  
“You…” the seller studied Rythian, “desire… the scribe. No… you wish to possess Enderbane. Ja?”  
“Ja,” Rythian confirmed. “I have several methods of payment at my disposal.”  
“Stop this negotiation in the name of Norr,” Lord Vindsvept said. “You shall not purchase any artifacts from this man selling counterfeit objects… mine lönnmördare.”  
“Lönnmördare?” the seller asked. “Champion, you… are a lönnmördare…?”  
A lönnmördare was the Norra title for a spy or an assassin. It had only ever been given out once, to Rythian. However, that had happened decades ago and Rythian did not deal in that kind of business anymore. Now he was known as the World-class Champion of Arcana; he’d never lost.  
“Mine lönnmördare, come back to the Vinterpalats,” Vindsvept said. “There is urgent business awaiting. This land depends on you. If you do not come, say goodbye to your many titles… Champion.”  
“Sacrilege!” Bard cried out. “Our Vindflöjt-playing Stora has committed sacrilege against the Champion! My bet is on the Champion.”  
Rythian’s eyes flashed cyan. Bard instantly quieted—when the Champion was in this state, he knew, it was best not to mess with him.  
Vindsvept stood, and as he rose his chair fell. He began to play a series of notes on the Vindflöjt—the tune was instantly recognizable as the Melody of Vinter, the Norra anthem. However, Vindsvept was playing it in a darker tone.  
Rythian attempted not to be led by the music. His eyes glowed intensively, filling the room with their cyan light, as he tried to make the Vindflöjt shatter. Splinters of wood came off; he was managing something. To strengthen his spell, he called upon the Endermagic flowing through his tainted veins, combining its power with the Gharnachian magic. One of his eyes now glowed purple.  
Suddenly, Rythian collapsed.  
Arcturus carefully traversed the old ruins, making sure he did not set off a single trap. He felt a presence behind him, and said, “Welcome, Rythian. I had a feeling you would join me here.” Arcturus’s deep purple cloak placed itself upon Rythian’s form.  
“I have questions,” Rythian said. Arcturus nodded, “Of course you do. As for whom I am, I am Arcturus. How you got here, I do not know, but I know why you are here. You have been called here by the being known as Charis. She has decided we meet.”  
“You are hiding many things from me, and I do not like it,” Rythian said. “How do you know my name? Who is Charis?”  
“All will be revealed in time,” Arcturus said. “Do you enjoy delving through ancient places? Perhaps you could join me in this little adventure I seem to be having.”  
Arcturus led Rythian through the dark crypts, and though the shadows ruled, they were no match for Arcturus’s magics. He commanded the light, though he was no priest. Far from it, in fact.  
“You, Rythian, have failed in hiding from the Three Great Ones, I presume,” Arcturus said. “Though the outcome was undesirable for you, at least we have been able to meet. Know this: whenever we happen to be asleep at the same time, Charis will attempt to bring us together to the same location. This way, we may contact each other—do not miss the opportunity, for I am a useful resource.”  
“How useful?” Rythian asked. “I have no idea what you know, or even if your knowledge is relevant to me.”  
“It is,” Arcturus said. He studied Rythian for a second. “You appear to be fading—you will awaken soon. We will meet again.”  
Rythian’s eyes opened. What had he just seen? Someone had interfered with his unconscious self, with magics. Endermagics were the only magics that could do such a thing, or at least that was what Rythian knew. Perhaps this Arcturus person he had met knew more than Rythian, in which case Arcturus would be a very useful contact indeed.  
Rythian examined his surroundings, recognizing them as the same icy walls that had once greeted him so long ago, when he was a lönnmördare. There was but one major difference in this room now from then, though: the windows were barred. This was not a room, but a prison—and it was his prison.  
Rythian searched the room for anything he could use to potentially escape. Nothing—the room had been searched thoroughly and cleaned of anything that could be an aid regarding escaping.  
Rythian wondered if Arcturus knew anything.

Vindsvept studied the ancient carvings etched into the wall showing battles that had transpired eras ago. They showed the ancient warrior king Bjorn the Brazen Battle-Raged defeating dragons, giant serpents, and other beasts of yore. Vindsvept was glad those times were over, for if Bjorn still lived… the world would be in chaos. In the old museum there were artifacts from that time, in the sealed wing. It’d been locked off for a reason, for there were dark magics on many of the ancient treasures.  
“The Librarians have ordered you to grant them access to the collection of King Bjorn,” Norrsken’s personal servant said. “Lord Vindsvept, they await your kind introductions in the audience chamber.”  
“Send for them to come here,” Vindsvept said. “I cannot leave this room now. There is… a presence here I can feel, waiting for me to leave so it may unlock the collection and unleash all the horrible magics there.”  
The servant hurried away, and a few minutes later he came back, breathless, with a host of curiously dressed Norr. These were the Librarians, and they looked as stone-faced as ever. Their skin was even gray due to an unfortunate accident with color-changing magic some few generations ago.  
“I, Supreme Librarian Gudrun Baer, am here to congratulate you, Lord Vindsvept,” the Librarian with the elaborate hairstyle said. “You have done excellently in retrieving the lost King Bjorn’s crown. Or rather, your adventurers have done excellently. Though you gave the order, and are in command of them. So, without further ado—” here he took a deep breath, then spoke rapidly “—I would like to examine each and every artifact in this room, no matter what enchantments or spells it has placed upon it—no matter the consequences I will learn about everything in this room.”  
“You… realize this could prove fatal,” the Supreme Librarian’s assistant, known as the Reader Librarian, pointed out. “Supremeness, I suggest rethinking your—”  
“Lord Vindsvept, allow me to do this and if I live I shall give you all that I have,” Gudrun Baer pleaded, showing many of the valuable gemstones wrapped in his hair that, miraculously, showed no signs of falling out anytime soon. Vindsvept studied the Librarian. His fellows were not keen on the idea, but he himself seemed as though he needed to experience all the deadly artifacts for himself in order to be most enlightened, and in turn cause all who could read to be most enlightened.  
“Good sirs, I am sorry to announce…” Vindsvept began, knowing many would disagree with his decision—but it was for the good of all Norr, “Librarian Gudrun, you may proceed into the museum’s wing in question. Librarians not named Gudrun, you may join him if you wish. Otherwise, please feel free to examine the other points of interest here. We have many things.”  
Every Librarian went a different way. The group of six Librarians were now each to his own—all Librarians were male—though they still conversed with one another about the artifacts they observed. Supreme Librarian Gudrun, on the other hand, came out of the sealed wing looking scarred for life, literally and figuratively.  
“Take me… take me back to… safety,” Gudrun whispered. Then he entered a trancelike state, and the only thing he would say was “Ro’naza beckons”.  
The Librarians took their leader out, the Reader shaking his head. Supremeness is unbelievable! I should have been Supremeness….  
Vindsvept went into King Bjorn’s section of the museum and examined the damage. Minimal, very minimal; in fact the only sign of anything happening was a smear on the portrait of the sorcerer King Bjorn had done away with, the sorcerer named Mallei Maleficum III the Big-Headed.  
That smear… it was in the shape of a tentacle. Tentacles were found only on the beasts the Deepstriders rode the seafloors with… and the Eldritch. Though, the Eldritch were never seen anymore—not by the living, at least. However, it could be that the painting was inhabited by an Eldritch, or something affiliated with one.  
Vindsvept took the painting with him as he left, sealing the wing back up and deciding never to unseal it again.


	3. Oh, how far one does fall

In the dark, abandoned halls of the dvärg fortress tunneled out of the mountainous area just outside of Norr’s eastern boundary, a red light passed through the locked door to the sanctum. Within the room, the altar in the center sat dominating the space, its basin filled completely with blood. Resting in that basin amongst the crimson liquid lay a pulsing reddish-purple orb, which was absorbing the blood around it. It glowed, and it glowed very brightly.  
Just to the side of the altar were five red-robed corpses and a black-robed woman with hair whiter than snow. Her purple eyes glowed dully, and the corpses rose.  
“Rise, my minions Tiberius, Way, Bella, Demir, Magus, and serve me,” the necromancer commanded. “Know thy orders and know them well. You are to search this place. Find the creature that dwells within. Bring it here to me, and await your next task. Go now!”  
The five undead mages began their search as the necromancer searched too, but for something different. She searched for a throne. Finding an ebony chair that was not too worn, she moved it over to the sanctum and sat there, waiting. Her minions came back, each helping to carry a demonic figure. This, the necromancer knew, was the owner of the fortress, known long ago as Kirin.  
“Good, minions, you have performed well,” the necromancer said. “Now, you may make sure the altar is kept full. A prick of the finger from each of you every hour should suffice…. As for you… Sciri Ndaiv.”  
The figure jolted. It emitted cyan mist that then turned red—it was transforming. Its size lessened, now merely six feet tall instead of eight. Its horns and other deformities had disappeared, leaving it with two eyes that glowed faintly red, casting a curious light on its golden hair.  
“You,” the creature hissed, “are familiar.”  
“I cannot be, Kirin Dave,” the necromancer said. Her voice was dark, though seductive. “You must be thinking of… your worst nightmare.”  
“I know you,” the creature said. “You are Avacyn, the necromantic queen of Both who learned from Wanion the Necromancer whilst you were bound by a marital contract to Qwintavius.”  
“I am no such woman,” she said, knowing full well the lie would not work upon a figure like this one. She was far too well-known from the history books for this creature to ignore her. It did have an extensive library, and many of the books looked very well-read—especially the tomes documenting the lives and times of the Summers, of which Avacyn was.  
“All the Royals are gone from this world,” the creature said. “Why, then, do you still exist? The documents stated that you fell long ago, to the Lich of Winterbourne.”  
“Steven was no Lich—”  
“—I beg to differ—”  
“—he was my apprentice—”  
“—no, he already knew everything. You only served as an extra soul for the phylactery.”  
“I… cannot believe he would have thought so low of me,” Avacyn admitted sadly. The creature remarked, “You aren’t used to being looked down upon, are you. This is why the Royals are gone. They were all useless, utterly useless.”  
“You are cruel, Kirin Dave,” Avacyn said, “but I am much crueler than you. Observe, I have slain your blood mages and caused them to rise again as my servants. Also observe, I am in control of this situation. You must bend to my will, otherwise… good night.”  
“You know nothing,” the creature said, closing its eyes. As it opened them, it screeched and pounced at Avacyn, claws extended, fangs dripping with the blood they had drawn out of an unlucky miner only two hours ago. Avacyn sighed and stepped aside, letting the ravenous vampire land on the stone floor, badly injuring its face.  
As it stood, it said, “This is not the last we will see of each other.” Then, it transformed into a cloud of bats and flew elsewhere into the fortress. The blood mages followed, now realizing their true master.

Des stuck a knife in the eye of Lord Filip’s tapestry of himself. Every citizen of Morningstar Village was forced to have one, though Lord Filip’s visage, to Des, was hideous—no, repulsive. What an excellent word, that.  
Des took the knife back, then threw it again, this time putting more force into it. He made a cut in the wall, then regretted it immediately. He’d ruined it—not the tapestry, but the wall. Now there’d be another place for the cold to seep in—and houses in the village didn’t have fireplaces. Only Lord Filip’s house had those, and he had one in each room. Des had underlined a word in his favorite book to describe the situation: UNFAIR.  
Des turned to the book he’d been reading since yesterday. It was Velosthera: Construction and City-Planning, Rulers, and Other Useful Information. He flipped to a random page—it so happened to be the one on the current ruler, an elflike man named Dukon.  
Lord Dukon claims to be the only ruler with brains in all the Realms. He also claims his rule has been intact since Velosthera’s founding. According to 1001 Facts: Royals Edition by Lady Patricia Forestier II, he likes the number 1, his favorite color is a shade of deep crimson, and he hails from the Farlands, but has lived in Velosthera for several years before deciding to shape his own nation there. He enjoys seeing other rulers proven wrong, and would much rather see to it that his lands are correct in all ways. He doesn’t, however, tolerate any sort of violence unless it is for a good reason, for example war or the annual Test of Champions that is sometimes held in Velosthera (see Events and Celebrations, section 21, for more information).  
Certainly, Velosthera seemed like a much better place to Des than here—anywhere was better than here. However, technically this was Velosthera. Though they were far from Lord Dukon’s protection that didn’t stop the laws from being enforced. Even here in Morningstar, Lord Dukon’s law enforcers, the fierce and slightly-wild Venti roamed, pecking everyone who refused the law with their sharp beaks and pointy talons.  
A Vent came up to Des’s door and rapped on it, a shrieking voice calling, “You have been registered as suspect! Answer door now or face punishments for your possible crimes!”  
Des opened the door and found a green and blue Vent staring at him with golden eyes. Its beak was black, as were its talons.  
“Des Magna Alkimia, resident of Morningstar Village in Velosthera of our Lord Dukon in red,” the Vent shrieked, reading off a paper clutched in its talons. “You have been charged with the crimes of outburst, uprising, shirking your duties, going against the village’s leader, and… theft of a very important artifact.”  
Des’s face went white. “H-how could I possibly have been the one to steal the Vinterkrona?”  
“Because paper says so!” the Vent cawed angrily, jabbing a talon at the words upon it. “See? You see! You, Des, charged with offenses both to Morningstar Village and to Velosthera! You under arrest until further notice! Your house is off limits! Come!”  
Des was led by a Vent away from all that he loved in the world, towards bigger cities, towards… towards Lord Dukon. He could fix this if he met with Lord Dukon! It was only a matter of getting that meeting to happen.

Lord Dukon, clothed in a crimson cloak, which hid all that lay underneath, sat on the ancient limestone throne. A flag hung above it, red with a white symbol—a very special symbol. It signified the word conquest, very special to Lord Dukon, and in turn Velosthera.  
The Venti guarding the throne room, stationed in front of the pillars that ran through the room, supporting the vaulted ceiling from which hung three chandeliers, carried spears. They looked quite threatening—and they were. It’d taken Dukon much longer to get them all to agree to come to Velosthera’s civilized lands than to convince their leader, their Nestmother, to agree with the partnership.  
The great dark ebony wood doors creaked open slightly, and a Vent with piercing golden eyes dragged a village man in, holding him by the head, letting the rest of him touch the floor. The long red carpet now had mud all over it—the servants would have panic attacks.  
“This, Des Magna Alkimia, has list of charges, Lord Dukon in red,” the Vent shrieked, tossing the man before the throne. He waved weakly.  
“Grant me the list of charges and take your leave,” Dukon said. “I will see no more of you today, Ric Vent.” The Vent, Ric Vent, tossed over the paper he held and stormed out. The other Venti shook their heads in disgust, as did Lord Dukon. He enjoyed the Venti’s revelry and games—they were so unique.  
“Des Magna Alkimia, rise and state your case,” Dukon commanded, voice firm. He had done this so many times now, he could just about do this in his sleep.  
The villager rose, then said, “Please, please, please, Your Lord—um, My Lord?—don’t punish me! I’ve done nothing wrong except think! Thinking is all I ever do wrong! I don’t know who stole the Vinterkrona but I’m sure it was Lord Filip because he’s wearing it.”  
“I need the Judge,” Dukon called. To Des he said, “You must know I believe you innocent unless otherwise proven by the evidence, of which there is none. So, until we somehow get some, we cannot charge you of anything whatsoever.”  
The Judge was called in. He was clothed in the traditional white and purple robes of one, trimmed with gold. A headdress made of silver, wrought into the shape of an eye, rested upon his head. His fingers were loosely wrapped around a silver staff, at its tip the same eye as was on his headdress. All Judges claimed the eye symbolized different things—for this Judge, the eye meant I will dig the truth out of you.  
“Judge Wil,” Dukon said, “I present the suspect of many crimes—as detailed on this list—Des Magna Alkimia, claiming innocence.”  
“Very well,” the Judge said. “Order all the servants, Venti, guards, and other people not a member of this court out of the room. I will have no eavesdroppers for this case.”  
Reluctantly, all those not involved left, leaving Dukon, Des, and Judge Wil. Des looked at the Judge. The Judge’s dark eyes narrowed.  
The Judge’s 5,544th Court Case was about to begin.


	4. The frailty of men reveals their truths

Judge Wil’s hold on the Staff of Judgement strengthened. Now he held the power—this suspect’s life was in his hands. He had only done 5,543 cases before this one—compared to most Judges who had worked as long as he, he was as inexperienced as a child. He had grown out of childhood thirteen years ago, so he was now twenty-eight; not a child.  
“Des Magna Alkimia, citizen of the Realm of Velosthera, resident of Morningstar Village,” Judge Wil announced, “you have been charged with several offenses, including but not limited to the theft of a Norra Vinterkrona belonging to one of Norr’s rulers. Do you deny this was your doing?”  
“I deny it! I’m innocent, I swear.” Des’s eyes looked wild, pleading, innocent—but not innocent enough. He’d done something, and Wil would dig the truth out of him.  
“Do you deny accusing a fellow villager of stealing the Vinterkrona?” Wil pressed.  
“No,” Des admitted, “but that’s minor! Besides, it was true. I saw him wear it; he’s still wearing it!” Wil had an idea this wasn’t the truth he sought.  
“Who?” Wil asked—he had to know. Besides, it was important to the case. Once he was done playing Judge, he would play Inquisitor and investigate further.  
Des exclaimed, “Filip! The richest man in Morningstar—the one who thinks he’s a king. He has the Vinterkrona and somehow still remains at large!”  
“I will send the Inquisitor to investigate this,” Wil said. “While he is away, you will wait here. Accommodations will be provided for you—is that alright with you, my lord?” Dukon nodded. “Des Magna Alkimia, consider yourself… a guest of Krein.” 

Des shivered, though the fires were lit in both hearths. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten this lucky—usually when people were suspected of a crime, they were hauled by the Venti down to the dungeons. If the crime was really bad, the Venti tortured the poor souls themselves.  
He looked around at his surroundings. A very nice bed, of course, waited for him, as did a few bookshelves filled with curious books. But something really caught his eye.  
Hanging on the wall, in the center of the two fireplaces, was a large painting. It was of a mage, that was for sure, but of whom Des couldn’t tell. The plaque underneath it read, in an elegant script, Arcturus the Quiet. This “Arcturus” had been painted in flowing purple robes, casting a spell that appeared to be very powerful. Around him lay many books and scrolls. Two long, pointed ears poked out from under his brown hair, suggesting that he was an elf, though he didn’t have any other elven qualities. He was most likely half-elven, then.  
Des stopped admiring the painting. What was this doing in a place like this? Shouldn’t it be in the castle’s gallery, with all the other paintings and tapestries of the great ones?  
“Honored prisoner-turned-guest,” a voice said from behind the closed door. “I have been ordered to bring you a meal. Please open the door so I may bring it in.”  
Des immediately opened the door. He hadn’t eaten in hours—his last meal had been around noon, and it was now either seven or eight, according to the sun’s position. No timepieces rested on these walls.  
A servant, the one who’d spoken, brought in a silver tray. Upon it was an empty cup, a bottle of the finest Nordica, a set of silverware, and a plate of the greatest salad Des had ever seen—and tasted.  
He thanked the servant, whose day was brightened, and returned to looking at the painting while drinking the Nordica. Strangely, the room Arcturus was in seemed familiar—wasn’t that this room? But in the painting’s room, there was a hole in the wall where the painting would sit. So that meant…!  
Des took the painting off the wall. There, where the painting had covered it, was a hole! Resting just inside the opening lay a note.  
I would like to thank you, Dukon, for personally inviting me to stay with you during the mage wars. Your lands are warm and inviting, whereas my homelands of Daral are exactly the opposite. I do expect you to honor my generosity and kindness, for I did save your people no less than five times, and quite possibly many more. How ever you wish to honor my transgressions on your land, I will accept it. – Arcturus.  
Des had heard of Daral. It lay to the north, and was a colony of Norr’s, but it was south of Norr itself, lying much closer to the Realm of Dawnbreak. If Arcturus hailed from Daral, that meant he was half-Norr as well as half-elf. Or half-Realmite-half-elf.  
And yet, the name Arcturus was neither Norr nor Realmite. It wasn’t even Gharnachian! It was an ancient Arcadian name, later adopted by the Otherlandish peoples and the Earthlings. That could mean Arcturus came from another Planet entirely, though that wouldn’t make much sense considering his aptitude for magic. Arcadians and Otherlanders didn’t have that much expertise with the arcane. In fact, the Otherlanders relied on external sources for their magic, not themselves. So, what was Arcturus?  
Des didn’t get much time to think about that, as just then, a loud bang went off somewhere below him, and the floor caved in.

“I cannot believe you think me responsible,” self-titled Lord Filip of the village of Morningstar said. “I would never strike your own tower, my lord! In fact, I don’ even have access to explosives, magical or otherwise, so it’s incredible you think I did this.”  
“When the suspect talks too much, it just makes him even more suspicious,” Judge Wil said. Lord Dukon in red nodded. “Filip of Morningstar. I hereby invoke Paragraph 105, Section 3 of the Judges’ Handbook. Based on your statement, I find you guilty of setting off the explosion in the guest tower. Your sentence—”  
“One survived!” a servant called. “My Lord, O Judge, I am so sorry to interrupt the Case but we found a survivor! It’s the one named Des. Arcturus found him!”  
The grand doors swung open with a magical hum, and a man in very old robes stepped through, levitating Des and directing him with a finger.  
“I am sure none of you have heard of me,” the wizard said, “but I am not very famous.” He tried and failed to suppress a laugh. “I am named… Arcturus the Quiet!”  
“You’re very loud,” Lord Dukon said. “Now, Arcturus… you overstayed your welcome a very long time ago. These past fifteen years I’ve beeen waiting to see you again just so I could tell you that. I also wanted to say that you’re no longer welcome in Krein. So, take Des and leave. Do whatever you want with him; if I need him I’ll get him.”  
“M-my lord?” Judge Wil stammered. “That is a-an unreasonable request…?”  
“Leave, Arcturus!” Dukon commanded. The wizard strolled out, and Dukon groaned, “Idiot.”


	5. A touch of madness makes a genius

“I was once a little fool in the city of Nacul, a nameless fool who… argh, I am terrible at rhymes!”  
Des opened his eyes, and found himself floating. He couldn’t control where he went, and he was sure the senseless sorcerer he could see was directing him with magic. Along with that, he was also practicing his rhymes—and they were terrible.  
“Who are you, exactly?” Des asked. The wizard looked as though he wanted to let Des go, but he wouldn’t do that.  
“The name’s Arcturus the Quiet,” the mage said, “and as you can hear I am very quiet.”  
“No you’re not!” Des said. Arcturus smiled, “Indeed! To hell with quietness, as my master used to say. He was also called quiet.”  
“You had a master?” Des asked. Arcturus stopped in his tracks and moved Des close.  
“I spent twenty-five years with him,” he said. “From the day I was born to the day I finished the finals trials, I served under him. You must be stupid.” Des was moved behind Arcturus, and they continued on. “I hate stupidity! Now tell me something about you.”  
“I also loathe idiocy,” Des said. “Where are we going?”  
“Oh, you don’t know?” Arcturus said. “We’re going to get something from the city past these cliffs, then we’ll go to my towers.”  
“Who was your master?”  
“His name is Arcturus. I hear he’s helping someone in Norr, and the vinterkrona….”

Rythian whispered, “I will not do anything for them. I cannot do anything for them.”  
A familiar voice echoed, “Then do something for yourself. Open the window, and step out. I have unlocked it, as per your request last full first-moon.”  
“Arcturus,” Rythian said, “you have set the bait on your hook, and have left it dangling very close, but I am one of a few fish who will not bite.”  
“Either you are too foolish or overly cautious,” Arcturus said. “I’d assume it is the latter, knowing you. So, how about this: next dreamtime, I will show you what lies ahead if you... take the bait and get drawn up by my line. I won’t hurt you, nor will I throw you back into the sea—but I promise you this: there is something you need to do, something that only you can do.”  
“You never should have chosen to fish in my lake,” Rythian said. This metaphor was going on very long, but he wouldn’t stop it now.  
Rythian could hear Arcturus’s smile. “I never had a choice, Ender. I was offered two choices: either find you… or let a madman from a poor village—scarcely a few huts and a grand manor—try and conquer all known Worlds. I want to harm the least amount of people, here. If that means your death to save the many, then so be it! If I must die, so be it!”  
“You’re… actually that is very rational,” Rythian admitted. “Very well. Show me your vision. I’m going to sleep now.”  
“Yes you are…” Arcturus whispered. From beneath the window ledge, he cast his final spell of the day and plunged deep into the Ender’s mind.

“Are you serious about all this?” Des asked. Arcturus the Quiet nodded, chipping away at the stone in front of him with a magical chisel. The stone was so tall, he had to use a flying spell to get up to the top. Now he was carving the head.  
“If I wasn’t, why’d I be statue-ing you?” the wizard asked. It was a fair point. “Statues only go out to the great men and women of the Ages. You’re a great man, because you’re getting a statue. Don’t ask me how it works; ask the sculptors in Deephaven. They have an honor-thy-ancestors kind of religion—lots of statues.”  
Arcturus carved out an eye, then made little adjustments here and there to make it more lifelike. It was to be a larger-than-life statue.  
“What do I do while you’re carving?” Des asked lamely. Arcturus didn’t hear him, as he was still working with the stone. Suddenly, he tapped once on the forehead of the figure, and the stone crumbled away, revealing a perfect statue. So that was how magical sculpting worked.  
“Here,” Arcturus said. “Take this statue, put it where you want. Don’t worry, it’s actually not that heavy—magic stone is different.”  
And different it was, for when Des lifted the statue, he was so surprised at its weightlessness he almost threw it up in the air. Arcturus watched him as he took the stone out of that room and into another, then to the hall. From there, he went to the great foyer and placed the statue down between the two staircases there.  
“That’s a good place,” Arcturus commented, cleaning the tiny bits of stone off his hands with magic. “Now make yourself hold something. Like… a ball of fire?”  
“I don’t know a thing about magic! I’m just a scholar,” Des said.  
“You’ve read Wizard Wars, right?” Arcturus asked. Des nodded. “You should know the basics then. Try to do something magical.”  
Des tried. He felt around in his mind, finding a tiny bit of magic. He grasped onto it, then threw it out to his hand. It glowed a vibrant yellow.  
“Magnificent…” Arcturus said. “Now shape it.”  
Des focused on the magic in his hand. He cautiously moved it up, then stretched it here and there. Now it looked like a glowing yellow orb. Arcturus took it from here, moving that orb with practiced ease up to the statue's hand. Now it would hold magic.  
“Not bad,” Arcturus said. “It’s no fire, but it does have class. Now you go to the workroom and wait for me—you’re going to learn something else today.”  
Des sat in a chair in the workroom, a large, high-ceilinged room with a long stone table full of arcane clutter, several shelves filled with scrolls and strange vials, and several apparatuses wizards used. The finest feature of the room, Arcturus had told him, was the spelling station, an area set aside to make new kinds of spells. Not many workrooms had those anymore, but Arcturus adored the “old ways”, when wizards could raise a mountain or destroy it with a word, when magic could create seas or dry up the vastest lake; when it could make you fly more than twenty feet off the ground; when it could bring the dead back to full life without the side effects.  
He had a grand portrait of the wizard that had been the greatest of that time, sitting on the wall just above the spelling station. His name was Mithion Arcana, and he had been known as the grand archmage, solely because of his prowess and the sheer power he held just in a fingertip, let alone his entire body.  
Next to him was a smaller image, the dark mage Fictorium that Mithion had had to ally with just to stop the fighting. Then the wizard wars had began, because Fictorium betrayed Mithion somehow.  
“Aren’t they just amazing?” Arcturus breathed. Des turned around to find the wizard right behind him. “Now come to the table. We can’t fawn over the great ones all day, sadly.”  
Des and Arcturus approached the table. Arcturus had laid out a few scrolls, a few runestones, and a large paper with a blue piece of chalk ready to leave its mark upon it.  
“I’m going to teach you how to draw a spell rune. They’re spells, but instead of casting right away, the target has to come to it, then it will cast. Open the bag of runestones and pick three.”  
Des chose three: red, blue, white. Arcturus continued explaining, “Now open up a scroll. Copy everything on it to the paper with that chalk.”  
Des did so. His symbols and wizardscript were a bit sloppy, but at least he’d gotten it all down.  
“Place the runestones face down on the paper in a triangle—one in each of three corners: top middle, bottom left, bottom right. Then draw a triangle linking them up together.”  
He placed his runestones, then traced a large triangle, slowly. As he finished the last of the lines, he felt a surge of power from the runes their stones had left.  
“Now you need to cast it,” Arcturus said. “Do it. Just channel your magic to the paper, then will it to shape into that rune. Place it… below my feet.”  
Des found magic in his mind, then did as Arcturus had described. It was becoming easier now. The rune drew itself just beneath Arcturus's feet, then disappeared. The wizard was engulfed in a cloud of steam.  
“Good! I think you’ll make a better Arcturus than me,” Arcturus said. Des was confused at that. “Now I need to teach you the rune combinations, so you don’t make one of these steam runes when you want a fire rune….”  
He searched through the scrolls and tomes on the shelves, then handed a thick volume to Des. The Apprentice's Book of Runes was its name, and it had at least three hundred pages.  
“There you’ve got a rune chart, long descriptions, pictures, and some example spells to try,” Arcturus said. “My master gave me that during my apprenticeship. I don’t need it now that I’ve got The Wizard's Complete Book of Runes. It's four times bigger than that one, see?” He held that book out. It was extremely thick—Des didn’t want to read that yet.  
“Practice some runes and spells,” Arcturus said. “Tomorrow I’ll test you.”

It was nice and dark in Arcturus’s room. The wood floors were layered with lush carpets from the Anhasi’i desert, all of them exquisite. He had but two candles in his room, and a fireplace. His apprentice’s room was similar, but a bit smaller and decorated with various interesting things Arcturus had found.  
Arcturus was having an uneventful dream when his eyes snapped open. The room was dark, but moonlight streamed through the tall windows, casting shadows.  
Arcturus slowly inspected the room, seeing nothing. He was about to return to his dream when he saw movement. He cast a light on the moving shape.  
“What are you doing?” Arcturus asked. The intruder's eyes glowed bluish-purple, and a curiously accented voice whispered, “You have what I seek.”  
“What do you seek?” Arcturus asked. The intruder cast a truthsight spell, letting him see things for what they truly were and to find what he sought.  
“I am in search of your… nas'ha-al, I do not know the word for it.” The intruder rifled through some scrolls and books, then opened the secret panel in the back of the bookshelf, finding what he sought: an ancient compendium and a single silver medallion.  
“I must away,” the intruder said. Arcturus cast a light spell on the intruder, and gasped.  
He had dark skin, dark hair, and wore tattered dark robes. His eyes, however, shone a brilliant blue. They were two pools of infinity, and in them countless fish wrapped in threads of knowledge swam. The shape of his face looked identical to Mithion's, in his portrait. This was…!  
“You’re Mithion, aren’t you,” Arcturus said. The intruder swore, “Bash'nahal” then cast a flight spell and left. He was flying more than twenty feet off the ground—proof enough that he was Mithion.  
Arcturus went back to sleep. He dreamt of Mithion.


	6. Dark powers control his hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA, the chapter in which I forgot that chapter breaks exist

It was uneventful for the next two weeks. Des had learned much, impressing his master with all his knowledge. His master seemed troubled, but he wouldn’t say anything about it. He always hid his true self with his jovial mask.  
One day, Arcturus didn’t come out of his room. Des heard furious scribbling from behind the door, and lots of page-flipping.  
Des didn’t get formal lessons for a few days, so he practiced on his own, learning spells and runes, mixing formulae and odd potions.  
Then Arcturus came out.  
He looked disheveled. He hadn’t slept in days; his hands were more ink-stained than an ink mixer’s. His eyes were filled with a strange unknown, as if he hadn’t gotten the answer he wanted.  
“Des,” he said, “it’s time you knew what I’ve been doing.” Arcturus told him everything he’d thought since the day his room had been invaded by someone like Mithion.  
“I cannot understand why,” he finished. “There are no answers.”  
Des thought for a moment, putting his mind to use. “That couldn’t have been Mithion. You said Mithion had died. That must be his apprentice and son, Aum.”  
“That would make sense, but he—he stole my Arcane Compendium! Why?”  
“We’ll figure it out together,” Des said. “For now, I need to learn more. Teach me how to make my own spells.”  
Des learned.

“There is no damning evidence,” Judge Wil said. “Des isn’t guilty. I’ll investigate our other leads.”  
Dukon nodded. In truth, he wasn’t paying attention, instead gazing upon the awesome beauty of the foreign stranger that had walked in and asked to stay. His name, he had said in his Eastern accent, was Aum Arcana.  
“My lord?” the Judge asked. “Did you hear me? I asked you if you wanted me to investigate the villagers in Morningstar.”  
“Yes,” Dukon said. Aum blinked, and now his eyes glowed. Dukon felt himself rising… and then he was on a high ledge. Aum walked calmly to the throne, the throne that had been there for a thousand decades, and tapped it. It broke into a million tiny pieces.  
The Venti shrieked, their war cries echoing off the walls. They charged, but Aum rose above them, flying through seven solid stone floors. The servants would despair.  
Judge Wil looked around at all the destruction and swore so creatively even a deaf man would be able to understand.

“Ah, ah,” Norrsken chided Vindsvept. Merrigan was nowhere to be seen, so it was just the two male gods with the Vinterpalats to themselves. Vind hadn’t done any crime yet, but Norrsken… he had set up traps and tricks for Vindsvept.  
“Merrigan is searching for her Vinterkrona and you dare? You dare insult me?” Vindsvept asked. “My Vindflöjt shall be the last instrument you hear today!”  
“Please, please, they are only tricks,” Norrsken said. “I do not mean harm.”  
At that moment, the Vinterpalats shook. Water dropped from its icy walls. What was happening?  
The two Stora looked outside. The snow… it was disappearing. All of Norr was, somehow, melting! And when did it get so hot?  
Vindsvept played his Vindflöjt. It summoned the Winds, but it was not enough. Nothing would be enough to bring the north back to Norr.  
A ring of laughter echoed from the melting icewood doors leading outside. “Norr, my shalhan, is defaced. Now the ice men will bow to us.”  
“Fictorium, you overpraise me!” another said with the unmistakable accent of the Frohiqui’in desert-plains. However, something dark lurked in his voice. “You have been a good servant. Once this land melts, you may sit one of its thrones.”  
“Thank you, shalhan,” the other one replied. “I shall go see these Tre Stora now, and maybe I will end their lives.”  
Fear clouded Vindsvept’s mind. The Frohiqui’in couple were planning to kill him, Merrigan, and Norrsken—why? What had they done to the desert-folk?  
“Nas’ha-al!” the first Frohiqui’in swore. The melting icewood doors to the Vinterpalats dissolved into a puddle. “Ah, I see them.” The Frohiqui’in strode into the Vinterpalats. He was garbed in blue and purple silks, and bore a striking resemblance to the Archmage of Old who had visited the Tre Stora long ago and given them the Gift of magic.  
“Haila, Tre Stora,” the Frohiqui’in said, bowing in the traditional manner. “You owe us much. We have to kill you, for you cannot repay your debt otherwise.”  
“Nej!” the lönnmördare shouted suddenly, slashing the Frohiqui’in with his red katar, a weapon of Anhasi’i make he loved using. The Frohiqui’in scoffed, flicking the blade away.  
“You have a child protecting you,” the Frohiqui’in said. “We will slay your young before we slay you, and once we are through with every nih-li in your lands, you will be next.”  
“Do you not know the word for youth in our tongue, desert-man?” Vindsvept asked. “It is—”  
“I care not for your barbaric tongue!” the Frohiqui’in announced. “We have other matters. You, Vindflöjt-holder, and you, Norrsken-former, shall perish. Now, child… you first.”  
The lönnmördare was forced up into the air. His sentient cloak writhed and twitched even as he did, and Vindsvept could hear both man and cloth moan in agony—the cloak sounded very Daemonic while still managing to have a high pitch.  
“Jäkla!” the lönnmördare said. “Stop this!”  
“Ni,” the Frohiqui’in said. “You next.” He lifted both Stora up to the air too, and Vindsvept felt his ichor, his god-blood, draining out of him. Glowing golden drops spilled onto the watery floor. To his surprise, the Frohiqui’in came up to the growing puddle of ichor and licked it all up. He swore he heard a dark voice say Yes, Aum, yes, feed me, make me grow….  
Vindsvept realized it at once. “You are being inhabited by a Daemon!” The lönnmördare’s eyes glowed, as did the Frohiqui’in’s.  
“Nas’ha-al, we do not know what you speak of,” he said, pure ichor coating his words. Once again, Vindsvept heard the strange other voice, echoing, then adding or do we.  
The lönnmördare was the first to break free. Then, the Shadows came.

It was a dark night in Arcturus’s house. Des slept away the bad dreams, but Arcturus suffered. He felt the chills of the north go away, only to be replaced by something much colder. The presence of a Shadow lingered in the air, or perhaps a Shade. It was not a Daemon, nor a Ghost.  
Arcturus flipped through several books, trying to find out what he felt. In Almanac of the Arcane, there was nothing. Nothing in Gregor’s Index of the Ethereal, nor in Gregor’s Index of the Infernal. But, in The Things I Dreamt by a wizard named Em, he found something.  
“The Dream Eater,” he read, “is a powerful entity from one of the lowest Planes of the Inexplicable Realm. When someone is possessed by it, they have the desire to seek out their darkest ambitions, even if they are not truly their own. They will do anything to achieve those ambitions… or die trying. The only way to remove this entity from one is to bring them to a Circle of Explanation and explain to them what cannot be explained.”  
Now, Arcturus had to figure out more about this Inexplicable Realm.

In her tower in the Citadel of Dark and Light in the Both Lands, Necromancer Queen Avacyn was sifting through her memories. She had been trained here as a Mage; she had learned the Archmage's Art of Ars. It was very difficult, but she had mastered that path, and her Arcane Compendium reflected that by giving her Enchanted notes on her efforts.  
She had first seen the Archmage on a moonless night long ago. Her little Conjuration had brought her to him. He was magnificent, as any well-to-do figure should be, but it was a bit more than that. His Aura, his Potential… she felt both so intensely, she thought he was the most powerful Mage in the World. He still held that title, she hoped.  
It had taken her twenty years to complete her training with him, and in that time, Avacyn could say she learned much, about herself, her magic, him, and his magic. She just wished he would come back, to reassure her that his son wasn’t going wild out in the Realms, melting Norr with his desert friends.  
Avacyn remembered a spell, one he had shown her. It summoned him… nothing could interfere with it, for it was one of the few spells invented that had no Attunement, Affinity, or any other trait.  
She cast it, feeling the rush of energy come and go. Her eyes flashed a bright white, the color of her magic. She felt a presence enter her mind.  
What does the little girl want? What do you want with master? It was the Archmage’s familiar! Of course he’d investigate by sending it. She projected thoughts of knowledge, reason, and accidentally, one about learning more about the melting of Norr and the one who’d done it.  
The presence left, and exactly fifty seconds later, the Archmage appeared. He looked as though he’d spent several nights searching for something. He might’ve found it, for he had a haunted look in his sapphire eyes.  
“You have called me here under the pretense of research,” he said, “and yet you wish to know what manner of evil has taken my son… as do I.”  
“Yes,” Avacyn agreed. “You have more experience with—no, don’t fall!” However, the Archmage did fall. Avacyn caught him with a spell just before he hit the ground, then slowly moved him upright.  
“I was saying, you have more experience with strange creatures than I do,” Avacyn finished.  
“You know, however, that I do not provide information to you outside of lessons. I will not be able to hold a lesson now; as you see, my power is at its limit.”  
“What were you doing?” she asked. “Did you… try to do something you didn’t know how to?”  
“No. I cannot tell you what I’ve done… it will only—” he stopped. Avacyn waited for him to continue, but he wouldn’t. He began to move as if in a trance, walking in a circle and reciting some words. His eyes glowed cyan, and his dark blue robes swirled around him. She felt power overwhelming flow from him, a lot at first, then it became a slow trickle. In a matter of seconds, the Archmage’s power was gone, leaving him a barely breathing body.  
Avacyn lay him on the lounge, then called for a servant to get a doctor. She wasn’t the best at healing spells.  
Fyfkzli, a curious alien, entered the room. His headdress today formed an elaborate crown decorated with feathers and beads. He took one look at his patient and said, “All you must do is wait. When he wakes, serve him a large meal, preferably laced with residual magic from you.” He left, leaving behind a single bead. It was purple and blue, and felt oddly like rithic, the magic gemstone-alloy made of amethyst and sapphire.  
Avacyn would wait as long as it took.

Arcturus brushed his hair out of his eyes. This time, instead of visiting Rythian like he had wanted, he had ended up in this… tower, he supposed. What Mage would live in a tower as glorious as this, though? It was no mere tower, but a Mage's palace!  
He climbed up the fifty floors, and there, on the fiftieth, were two Frohiqui’in Mages. Mithion Arcana, and his son Aum Arcana.  
Mithion was garbed in shades of blue, but his son chose blue and purple silks to adorn himself with. He also wore an icy crown… the Vinterkrona.  
“O Archmage, why am I in your dreams?” Arcturus asked. Mithion turned around, as did his son.  
“This is not a dream,” Mithion said. “You have been called here, as did my son. I seek answers, and you have most of them.”  
“I hold now this ice crown,” Aum said, “because I have done as I desire. I have stolen this from Filip, the fool who had declared himself king. I am king.”  
“You are mine,” Mithion said. “Those of mine are unfit to rule the World.”  
“Nas’ha-al, must you say that to me? You have invited us both here for a reason. Ask your questions… Father.”  
The Archmage turned to Arcturus. “I ask of you: what manner of horrors has decided to manifest here?”  
“My former apprentice has decided it’s a Dream Eater,” Arcturus said. “You know of them. I read that your wife was taken by one, and she still walks, believing she is a Necromancer Queen. Yes, your beloved Saali, who you have missed for five millennia, is now known as Avacyn Nightshade.”  
“That cannot be true,” the Archmage said. “Her Aura feels nothing like Saali's.”  
“It has been five thousand years, you know. A Mage changes much in that time, especially if they have a suspicious entity feeding on them.”  
The Archmage whirled around to Aum and asked, “This question I direct to you: why?”  
“That question has too many answers,” Aum said. “Why does grass grow? Why is the sky up there? Why are we Mages? Why…? I cannot answer that, until you know why for yourself.”  
Arcturus felt himself slipping away, and the scene vanished before him.

It was very dark. The only thing that provided light in this room was the moonlight streaming through the windows. A strange energy traveled with the oddly red moonlight tonight… it was a blood moon.  
Though his eyes were barely open, Mithion could see much. He saw beyond the walls of the room, his true Sight letting him See everything for what it truly was. He Saw mountains rise; he Saw castles built; he Saw the Past and the Future. There was nothing hidden from him now.  
Mithion returned to his simple vision, his true Sight vanishing in a flash of magic. He had something to ask “Avacyn”, and he had to ask her as soon as he could.  
Avacyn wasn’t in the room. He knew it had been a week since he’d left—his power was much greater now than it had been before.  
He waited for what seemed like mere minutes, but truly it was eight hours. When he saw the silver-haired Necromancer Queen, he said but one word: “Saali?”  
With that one word, Avacyn's Dream Eater was washed away, screaming, trying to claw its way back, but Avacyn wouldn’t let it. Her form shifted and changed, until she appeared as a tall, slender Frohiqui’in Mage with long black-and-white hair and amethyst eyes. Avacyn’s dressings were too large for the new figure, but Saali held them up.  
“You… you have freed me?” she asked. “Oh, an'shai…!”  
“An’sha,” Mithion said, “how long have you suffered? What have I saved you from?”  
“A wicked being drove me to practice the Arts of Necromancy, after it had been satisfied with the ruler of Equilibrium's manners. I had to watch as I changed, in both appearance and mind, and soon I didn’t recognize myself anymore. But, an'shai, how did you know who I was?”  
“I… cannot remember,” Mithion said. “Come sit with me. We must exchange tales.”  
For seven days they spoke, telling of what they’d been doing these past five thousand years. They acted as if the time was but a few years, hoping that would help. It did.  
On the eighth day, one of the Citadel's servants entered the room and gasped, “Wh-where is the Lady Avacyn?”  
“She is me,” Saali said. “I am Saali Arcana. You will not address me as Necromancer Queen, but merely…?”  
“Lady Saali,” Mithion suggested. That she was happy with, and the servant seemed relieved.  
“You will be much better than Lady Avacyn,” she said. “I will take you to your throne.”  
“My throne,” Saali said, “will be much better if we sit it together.”  
“Dual rulers? That’s not happened since the Twin Queens, in the Light Lands! Very well… shall I dress both of you, or just you, Lady?”  
“We may dress ourselves,” Saali said.  
The Both Lands' new rulers were accepted with questionable claims at first, then the citizens warmed to them. The Realm celebrated the Coronation Day with double the splendor.  
Lady Saali Arcana received a new crown. It was a gold circlet, mimicking Mithion's silver one, but instead of blue stones set into it, there were amethysts, beautiful and purple.  
She always wore purple, and soon became known as the Amethyst Queen, married to the Sapphire King, rarely called Archmage. Not many cared for him, for he was a very powerful Mage and could easily do away with everything with a wave of his hand. Luckily for the citizens, he wasn’t around much.

Des glared at the drawing of the Dream Eater. “It looks like a giant cat.”  
“Yes, it does,” Arcturus agreed, “but do you see that it has wings? That’s so it can fly to any and all victims and reach their minds.”  
“Why would the Inexplicable Realm exist if creatures like this are all that inhabit it?”  
“It’s inexplicable. No one can explain it! Not even Magus Mara, the celebrated researcher of the Infernal.”  
“Magus Mara was the researcher of healing,” Des reminded Arcturus.  
“It makes no difference. She still was unable to discover the answers so many need.”  
“How do we get rid of this Dream Eater?”  
“We must explain what can’t be explained. The Archmage just did so to a Necromancer, and she realized she was Possessed. Did you know she’s truly a Frohiqui'in?”  
“She… I thought she was a Realmite! Dream Eaters can change your appearance?”  
“If they live long enough, yes. Aum Arcana is slowly becoming more Daemonic. Have you noticed his Aura…? It feels like Shadows.”  
“He’s turning into a Shadow,” Des said gravely. Arcturus slowly nodded, and they both knew what they had to do.

The Archmage’s tower was a very tall spire carved of fine stone, and many balconies and short bridges jutted out from it. Upon the bridges were small one- or two-floor side towers, though many of them were newer additions. The tower itself was quite old, and though it was ancient, it was the sturdiest structure in all of Gharnach.  
The Frohiqui’in winds carried sand, which covered the lower reaches of the tower. Hanging beside the grand doors at the very bottom were two banners, bearing the sigil of the Archmage—a glowing eye with swirls emanating from it. The banners were Enchanted to show the eyes watching visitors. That enough deterred most from its doors, save for those who truly deserved an Archmage’s assistance.  
The tower was fifty floors high, and all floors served their purpose. However, most floors didn’t see much use to anyone but the Archmage, for, to them, they were just decorations or things unworthy of their time.  
The only floor most visitors ever got to see was the very bottom one, containing tapestries and rugs, a few bookshelves and boxes of books, and a seating area. This floor was named the miniature library, for there were four library floors. The other three were each stacked on top of one another, together forming the famed Trinity Library which the two rivaling Frohiqui’in mage groups, the Bashrahni and the Azar, could visit and read in. The Library consisted of over a million books, only fifteen percent of which came from this Multiverse. The others were much older tomes, each one documenting the events of the First Multiverse, whether factious, fictitious, or an amount of both.  
The very top floor was a special floor. Aside from the impressive floor mosaic, there were also no less than fifty Teleportation platforms arranged in a circle around the center of the room leading to various areas of importance, an area devoted to astrology which contained two telescopes (one was magical), and a throne, beside which was a table with a comfortable pillow for any familiar worthy to be the Archmage’s. The throne was most commonly named the Seat of the Stars, for when one seated themselves in it, their vision expanded so much so that they could See. They Saw everything, and all but the most experienced of Seers couldn’t handle it.  
It was this magnificent tower Aum Arcana had once called home, and it was this magnificent tower he was returning to now. He stood in front of the locked doors, grasped the crystal chain hanging near, and pulled. That was the doorbell, and it could be heard resonating throughout every floor, an Enchanting melody of chimes resembling a tune a certain Raven used to hum when he felt homesick for the Unknown.  
The doors opened as the bell was heard; Aum entered. Within, he passed everything, concentrating on reaching floor forty-nine. He ascended each silver spiral staircase quickly, using magic to hasten his movement.  
On floor forty-nine, he saw what he needed: the most well-stocked, most advanced mages’ lab ever devised. On one wall was a large mirror that, when given a name, would tear a hole in the Fabric of Reality to let one reach the dimension containing that name. Aum could tell it rithic and it’d open a portal to a dimension full of the gemstone. Rorrim’s Mirror of Ytilaer was a very useful device. That, however, was not why Aum was here.  
Aum approached the area set aside for scrying. It was walled off by a wood-and-glass divider, and the only way to get past it was with the set of doors in the center. Aum expected them to be locked, but just to be sure, he tried the handle. It worked—what a fool was Mithion to keep his magical devices unguarded.  
He took a step back, unsure of why he was doing so. Then—Aum approached the area set aside for scrying. It was walled off by a wood-and-glass divider, and the only way to get past it was with the set of doors in the center. Aum expected them to be locked, but just to be sure, he tried the handle. It worked—what a fool was Mithion to keep his magical devices unguarded.  
Wait, Aum thought, that has occurred… twice, and my thoughts were the exact same.  
He instinctively retreated a step again—Aum approached the area set aside for scrying. It was walled off by a wood-and-glass divider, and the only way to get past it was—  
A Time Loop! Aum realized, and burst free of the spell. It was barely noticeable to all but the trained mage, and its effect…? It placed those it affected into a loop, repeating one or many moments of the past. Some people’s entire lives were stuck in a loop.  
That’s how he wants to play this, Aum thought. He cast a protective spell blocking Time magic, then approached the doors again. This time, he was able to open them without repeating the loop. He closed the doors behind him and approached the marble pedestal.  
Carved within the pedestal was a hexagonal basin filled with shining water. Aum looked into it and cast the scrying spell, hoping to learn where his not-as-foolish-as-originally-thought father was.  
“You assume I leave my own tower undefended?” Mithion challenged, looking directly into the eyes of the scryer. “Intruder, you have been wandering through an Illusion….”  
Everything melted away. Aum was standing in the middle of the desert, and the real tower stood not fifty feet away from him.  
“Nas’ha-al,” Aum swore, realizing he was paralyzed. The sand swirled around him.

Mithion had been asleep the entire evening, and when he woke, his familiar told him of the magnificent Illusion she had cast, picking it from the list of spells Mithion had wanted to find a use for.  
“The Dream Eater clouds his true Sight,” Mithion mused. “It changes the way he acts as well as his magical talents!” He made a note of that.  
His familiar Saar reclined on her pillow, then decided she’d go to sleep. Mithion would as well, he reasoned, as whenever his familiar cast something that involved, she used her master’s magic, for no familiar could sustain a spell of that magnitude on its own.  
Perhaps, he dared, his son would come for him. Then, there would be some things to talk about.

The Trinity Library was occupied by a gathering of Bashrahni magi looking to further their skills in battle magic, as per the Judges' requests. Arcturus and Des were also there, reading up on Dream Eaters. It was very late in the afternoon, and the Archmage was watching his guests with his twin sapphires for eyes. His eyes, however, were a bit too glassy. He wasn’t looking at them all; he was scrying on something.  
Des looked at Arcturus, seeing he was wholly absorbed in Those Who Devour Dreamers. Then, he looked at the Archmage, noticing he seemed to be muttering something—his lips moved ever so slightly, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. Des wrung his hands, took a deep breath, and cast a seeing spell.  
—water, flooding the formless Vinterpalats. The Norra way of life is shattered. Fictorium, now proclaiming himself King of Norr, is content. Aum is struggling to get near the tower, seemingly having no drop of mana to spend… it is a struggle in vain. Gharnach as a whole is being twisted by Aum and his Dream Eater. His Dream is dying—  
The Archmage blinked, then stared directly at Des. He reached out a hand, a hand whose palm was filled with the telltale glow of magic, and slowly raised it. Des began to levitate; he found he couldn’t control where he went. As the hand moved towards its owner, Des moved towards the Archmage, both hand and Des stopping when they were inches apart from each other.  
“What were you expecting to see?” Archmage Mithion inquired. Des said immediately, “I wanted to know what you were seeing.”  
The Archmage took Des up to the very top floor. He placed Des in the Seat of the Stars, positioning him so that the Archmage could sit as well. A great blue bird clicked its beak with annoyance—clearly, it despised visitors.  
“Blink,” the Archmage commanded. As Des’s eyes opened, he was overwhelmed with sight. He could see everything; all things were shown to him, all at once. Past, present, future, theoretical future, etc., he saw it all. After a bit, he learned to sift through the images, disregarding those he thought irrelevant and gathering up those he thought he needed.  
Often the Archmage asked questions about why he was saving a particular scene, such as “Is that useful?” or “What does that image have to do with the others?” It was quite annoying in Des’s opinion—he knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t need an expert’s help.  
Once he pieced together the images, he looked them over one by one, arranging a timeline from them. The Archmage observed this, commenting on the varying possibilities such as temporal shifts or some such Time magic nonsense.  
Des had arranged a massive timeline stretching over thousands of years, all pertaining to Aum’s Dream Eater.  
It began when Aum was born, two thousand and six years ago, to three parents—Mithion, Saali, and Fictorium Arcana. The child had been named as Aum, meaning wonder. However, as Aum reached the thirteenth year of his life, he realized his parents had lied to him. They had told him he did not possess any sort of magical power, and yet he had discovered he could do magic. Upon returning home that day, he had raged at his parents and ran away, taking with him a few spellbooks. The Arcana family had then decided to go their separate ways—Mithion remaining at the tower, Saali going to the Realms, and Fictorium’s location was unknown. For many years Aum lived on the streets, learning all he could about magic from the books he’d stolen (and bought) magical books from the Bashrahni and Azar Bazaars. His education abruptly ceased when he came into contact with an ancient grimoire, possessed by a Dream Eater. It was then that his long spiral into madness began. He absorbed the knowledge of the mages he slew as an Anhasi’i mage-hunter, soon becoming a font of magical knowledge. However, the only spells he used were those touched by the Dream Eater’s presence. Soon, Mithion learned of what his son was doing, and had begun to scry on him. Every waking moment of Aum’s life was subject to Mithion’s viewing pleasure. A thousand years of this passed, and Aum had dove deeper into darkness.  
Des’s vision began to fade—he had taken too long. It must’ve been hours that had passed. However, Des persisted. He flicked through the images, finding several important events, all happening recently, until he saw what he had just seen as he had seen it, and as he saw what he was currently seeing, his head began to hurt. It was all very confusing. He found a small scene of relevance in the future.  
Aum was lying down, badly injured, on the grass of the Dark Lands. Nearby the Archmage stood, burning with magic. Des and two Arcturus the Quiets were next to him. One Arcturus was Des’s Arcturus; the other was… different. Behind this Arcturus was a strangely dressed Norr. From here the images were less coherent, as if something was stopping the sights from being seen, and it was difficult to make it out—a wand, a staff, a glittering star—no, a gem, shaped like a star.  
Des leapt out of the Seat of the Stars, feeling a sudden pain in his head unlike the ones before. It was… too painful to be naturally caused. It must be magic.  
Des raced down to the Trinity Library, disregarding the fact he was still levitating (did the Archmage’s spells ever end?). He cried, “Arcturus!”  
Arcturus looked up from a growing stack of books. The Library had cleared out, so few eyes watched. “What were you doing?”  
“I saw… I saw things,” Des said. He explained what he’d seen, and what the Archmage had done. Arcturus thought for a moment, digesting the new information, then asked, “Do you know what the gemstone you saw is?” At Des’s head shake, Arcturus explained, “It is the Star of Scelerus. An ancient artifact from the First Multiverse—I’m not sure on its location, but I do know that it is incredibly powerful.”  
“What about the wand and staff?” Des asked. Arcturus said, “I can’t think of anything those could be. The Archmage might know—if common mages like us could possibly ever ask him things.”  
“Arcturus, we are not common mages,” Des said. “You’re Arcturus the Quiet.” At the mention of that name, the tower went silent.  
The name Arcturus the Quiet echoed throughout the tower, causing the Archmage’s bird to squawk indignantly. The Archmage’s eyes narrowed at the very mention of the name, for in his tower, the name was a curse.

Mithion’s hands shook as he stepped down the silver staircase to the Trinity Library. He could feel powerful waves of magic trying to break free, but his will was strong enough to push it back, to tell it wait.  
As the Archmage entered the Library, he noticed an Arcturus almost immediately; they all possessed a certain kind of Aura that was unmistakably Arcturus.  
This Arcturus, the fifty-first Arcturus, was conversing with the inquisitive man who’d been permitted a journey through the infinite eyes, from the comfort of the Seat of the Stars.  
“Arcturus the Fifty-First the Quiet,” Mithion said, “I demand an explanation of what you are doing in my tower.”  
“Oh… me? I’m researching the Dream Eater!” Arcturus said. “Everyone wants to save your son; he’s really become a nuisance.”  
“I have spent the last fifty years cleaning up after the Forty-Eighth Arcturus visited,” Mithion said. “You all have an Aura that taints others' magic. I think I now know why… Dream Eater.”  
“Me?” Arcturus pointed. “You really are old, Archmage! You’re losing your eyesight.”  
“No,” Mithion hissed, feeling a massive wave of magic about to burst free. His eyes closed, then opened fiercely, glowing vibrant with magic. “Everything I am seeing is a dream. Leave.” He caused the bookshelves to fall. “You are not welcome. Not in my dreams nor in my life.” The windows shattered. He chanted in ancient tongues as he destroyed his tower, and when it was all gone he fell to the sand. He looked up at Arcturus, then realized what he’d done was all… real. What had just come over him? Why…? His tower!  
“Nas'ha-al,” Mithion sighed as he sank into the sands.  
A day later, another Mithion walked up towards him. “Remake our tower, or there will be disaster in the future.”  
Mithion nodded slowly and began work on the spell. His future variant vanished, satisfied.

“Arcturus,” Rythian called out. His dreams hadn’t been visited, and now he knew why: Arcturus had been waiting for him.  
“I know this might shock you, but the Great Melting of Norr is happening in inverse in the Great-Desert,” Arcturus said. “They call it Al-Shan’anhasi, the Freezing of Anhasi.”  
“What…?” the lönnmordare exclaimed. “That can’t be possible. Their ice would melt, and there’s not enough water.”  
“Water, land, it makes no difference to a magical freeze,” Arcturus said. “I’ve frozen fire before, and that was the purest fire I’d ever seen.”  
“Cold, but hot,” Rythian said. “So, Arcturus. What will we do about the Melting and Freezing?”  
“Tradition holds that we must let them resolve in their own, but we don’t have that much time,” Arcturus said. “So I, Arcturus the Fiftieth, only one to deny my title, will deny tradition also. Follow me, Rythian; it’s time to save Norr. Let us find the lost Vinterkrona.” There was something dark in his tone, as if he had another goal. What was it?  
“What else do you want, Arcturus?” Rythian asked. The mage asked in return, “Do you think I seek something else?” Arcturus wouldn’t give up his secrets that easily.  
The lönnmordare sighed. “What do we have to do first?”  
“First, we find the possessor of a certain artifact, and take it from them.”

A great and strange Darkness had spread across the land, and now it was coming for Velosthera. Lord Dukon-in-red had done all he could to halt its advance, but his actions had been in vain. He needed an Arcturus, for they knew the intricate magics, the deep magics. Dukon had sent out messages to both Arcturuses he knew, and hopefully one would respond. If not, no doubt there’d be problems.  
All he could do was wait, if Aum would allow him that luxury. His land was no longer his, and he was no longer himself.


	7. The journey to the end

Five runes circled around Arcturus, and Rythian the lönnmordare wondered what they meant. They were locating the Vinterkrona, and so far no methods had worked. Arcturus exclaimed, “I know its location!”  
“Where is it?” Rythian asked, and Arcturus responded, “In Norr. It lies next to a star-shaped gemstone, and a note.”  
“A note?” the lönnmordare asked. Arcturus nodded, “Yes. It seems to be written by someone I once knew, a mage named Izenir, and Izenir states: the Staff is rightfully mine and so I have taken it back.”  
“The Staff of Jotun,” Rythian said. “I have read about it. It is an ancient artifact made by the mage Izenir Den-al’naham, of Frohiqui.”  
“Exactly,” Arcturus said. “More, it embodies the power of the Jotun, the ancient giants the Snow Elves dealt with, and occasionally still do. They are not as numerous, but the ones still alive are incredible.”  
“The Snow Elves were our forfader. They aren’t around anymore.”  
“Yes they are. They dwell in seclusion at the top of the World… and that is where we must go to get the Staff of Jotun.”

Des and Arcturus had returned to the ruins of Velosthera under orders by Lord Dukon-in-red, and now Arcturus had decided to follow them for a change.  
“We have gotten word from another Arcturus,” Dukon began, “and he says that you must journey with him and his unnamed associate to the top of the World.”  
“No one has ever come back from the top of the World!” Arcturus cried. “That’s the equivalent of sending a little newborn to the top of the stairs and asking them to come back—they never do!”  
“Arcrurus,” Dukon said, “you need to be rational. You can get back, as long as you work with the other Arcturus and his associate. Now I suggest you start going to Norr—it is a long way there from here, and it’s a longer way to the top of the World.”  
With that, Dukon was done.

Arcturus the Fiftieth was waiting with Rythian at the border to Norr, eyeing the horizon with purple eyes. The lönnmordare did this too, and these two sets of eyes spotted the other Arcturus and his cohort immediately.  
“Fifty-first,” Arcturus said, “or should I be nicer and say… former student of mine.”  
“Hello!” Arcturus the Fifty-first exclaimed. “This is Des Magna Alkimia, the smartest village idiot I’ve ever met.”  
“Oh, you’re thinking of making this Des into an Arcturus, are you?” Arcturus the Fiftieth said. “I don’t think that is a good idea. My companion is the famous Rythian, lönnmordare and champion of Arcana.”  
“I have no idea who that is, but let’s just go to the top of the World,” Arcturus the Fifty-first said.  
“Ah, did I hear a rational statement come from your lips?” Arcturus the Fiftieth asked, then said, “Well. Let us go then. Cast your warmth spells; it’ll be the coldest cold you’ll ever feel up there.”

The air was frigid and it only got more so as they ascended. Soon frost covered the four people, and Arcturus the Fifty-first was singing. It was not very good, because his rhymes were terrible and Arcturus the Fiftieth shouted at him to stop. He did not.  
Everyone was growing more uncomfortable by the minute, and every step they took had taken a little more out of them. It was as if the group was going to collapse, one by one. Arcturus the Fiftieth had an idea, though: casting more warmth spells. He himself cast ten, and swiftly continued on. The others followed suit.  
The top of the World was a long way up. But, when they finally reached it, Arcturus the Fifty-first said, “We made it! Now I can stop singing.”  
“Alright,” Arcturus the Fiftieth said. “We must find the Snow Elves. They will give us the location of the Staff of Jotun, and that will let us command the Jotun. They are strong enough that they should be capable of defeating the Dream-Eater.”  
“What? You found a way to defeat Aum?” Des asked. Arcturus the Fiftieth said, “Of course I found one. I am a good Arcturus, unlike that one who gives us all a bad name.”

The top of the World was colder than cold. It was even more frozen than ice, more chilled than Norr. And here, dressed in elegant garments made of ice, dancing to an eerie song played on a xylophone made of icicles, were the Snow Elves.  
“Forfader,” the lönnmordare said, bowing. The Snow Elven music stopped. The Elves themselves studied the lönnmordare, and one of them, wearing an icy crown that was not the Vinterkrona but something more magnificent, stepped towards him. A melody was played on the ice xylophone, a regal melofy.  
“Her Most Icy Highness, Queen Sjalafol the Unmelting,” an Elf called out. “Please bow and kiss the snow in respect.” Every Elf, save the Queen, did so, and now they looked at the foreigners expectantly.  
The lönnmordare was the first to try this strange tradition. He felt it very strange, having to kiss the snow. That chilled him even more.  
“Greetings, those of you from Lowdown,” Queen Sjalafol said, her voice like ice. She, like all of her people, possessed blue skin and blue eyes, but instead of their white hair, she had black hair, marking her as royalty. “We have not gotten visitors since we retreated to this point. Why are you here?”  
“We seek the location of the Staff of Jotun,” Arcturus the Fiftieth said. “With its power we will be able to stop the crisis that plagues the World. As Norr is close to your realm, and it’s been affected, we thought we might tell you about it before we took the Staff.”  
At the word Norr, the Elves glanced at Arcturus. Queen Sjalafol said, “Our descendants deny our continued existence, so we are not on good terms.”  
“Forfader,” the lönnmordare said again. “My people refuse to acknowledge you as our forfader.”  
“Yet you are here, seeking the Staff of Jotun,” Queen Sjalafol said. The lönnmordare noted that the Snow Elves’ breaths left no clouds of mist in the air; their breath was as cold as their surroundings. Sjalafol took three steps forward. “The Staff of Jotun is extremely powerful; only I may look upon it, and only I may touch it. Why do you expect me to grant you access to it?”  
“Because we have this,” Arcturus the Fiftieth said, and presented Queen Sjalafol with a heart encased in ice. Though it was completely frozen, it still beat, and glowed with a strange cold energy. The Queen eyed it carefully, then nodded slowly.  
“We will exchange treasures; the frost-heart for the Staff of Jotun,” said Queen Sjalafol. “Come.”  
Snow Elf Queen Sjalafol walked slowly and gracefully, and the procession of her people, both Arcturuses, and their companions followed. Arcturus the Fifty-first began singing again, much to the dismay of all.  
They ventured into a glittering ice palace, but passed all of its magnificence, descending into its frozen depths. The lower the procession went, the less refined the structures were, until it seemed they were walking in hollowed-out tunnels. Then, a massive vault, covered in magical ice, could be seen. Queen Sjalafol approached it, pressed her hands on the frozen door, and spoke her command word, permafrost. Her eyes flashed an iridescent blue. The ice around the door melted, and the door itself sprang open.  
“Welcome, most honored visitors, to the Vault of the Snow Queens,” Queen Sjalafol said. Inside was a cold metal room, the walls lined wish shelves containing all manner of treasures. One of these was the Staff of Jotun—this was perfect!  
Arcturus the Fiftieth walked up to the glittering Staff, took it, and gave Queen Sjalafol the frozen heart. At the last minute, Arcturus also took the Star and the Wand, the two other treasures which Des had told him of on their ascent.  
The Snow Elves bid them farewell in their unique ways, and the group made their long way back down the mountain.


	8. He who speaks to shadows is no one good

The citadel where Saali Arcana lived and ruled was a bright place now, decorated with swirling patterns and built of purple veined marble. Yet, even with all its layers of magical defense, it was no match for Aum Arcana and his supernatural magic. Behind him was Fictorium, carrying supplies for Aum’s latest goal: to destroy Saali and her Realm.  
At the gates, the war mages tried to slay the invaders, yet they, being strengthened by Aum’s magics, calmly killed all the defenders of the citadel with little effort. Such power was only dreamed of, for most people—and Aum could safely say that he was one of the most powerful people alive.  
He entered the citadel and slew everyone inside, leaving Saali for the last. He relished the moment; he approached her throne calmly, a smile plastered onto his dark face, his cruel eyes shining with twisted pleasure as he spoke the words of his cursed spell: “You are mine, and you are dead.”  
“No!” Fictorium cried out, as Saali shattered and all was done. “Saali….”  
“What is this, Fictorium? Is that… disobedience I sense in your voice? Is that sadness?” Aum asked, turning to them. “Surely you cannot feel so terrible about a woman who sought to stop our every move. Surely there is no way you can empathize with—with a creature such as she.”  
“I should have known,” Fictorium said, the runes burnt into their skin coming aglow. “I should have known that you would turn on her. Next, you’ll want to kill him—you’ll want to kill the one who drew me from the darkness, and who raised you. You are twisted; you are vile. The Daemon inside you cannot be allowed to live longer. I—I must kill it.”  
“Fool! Your emotions cloud your judgement!” Aum said, watching Fictorium’s magic flow within and without them. “If you try that, you will die as well. You don’t understand the cost of what will happen—and it will not even work.”  
“No—I am the most destructive mage in the World—Mithion said as much—I knew as much—” Fictorium burst aflame, a magical aura surrounding them, the twisted corruption hidden within then coming out. As it built, they screamed, a primal fury and horrid outcry of pain, revulsion, and most prominently, fear.  
Fictorium was afraid of their son.  
They drew all their power, and attempted to cast the Dream-Eater out. It didn’t work.  
As Saali did before them, Fictorium shattered into a million tiny pieces, and each piece burnt to ash, which blew away on a magical wind, never to be seen again.  
Aum cared not. Fictorium had been foolish. Let them die. This was no matter for Aum; Aum was ultimate, he was the most powerful mage. Now, it was time to find his “father”.

Arcturus the Fiftieth woke from a horrible nightmare. No, he woke from his own nightmare into another’s. This was the nightmare of Aum Arcana, and it was filled with terrible things. Horrible things. Things that could not be mentioned.  
The Dream-Eater hissed and watched Arcturus, and the dream-mage decided to examine the mind of this possessed man. He found little, save for ancient scraps of a life once good, a life once worth living. But now? All of these things were overshadowed by the wickedness of the Dream-Eater, whose very presence radiated decay and darkness.  
Now Arcturus saw the faces of his two most recent victims. It could not be. He had slain his own family members, and for what? The demonic shadow told him, power. Underneath, very, very far beneath, Arcturus found… yes, there it was, the inescapable pain of loss. Beneath the Dream-Eater, Aum was still very much human—but not for much longer.  
Arcturus awoke, and he knew where they had to go next. He made sure the ships to Anhasi were still taking passengers and arranged one; they hadn’t much time to get to the east coast of the Realms before the ships left once and for all. If Mithion Arcana yet lived, he was their only chance for salvation.  
But Aum would no doubt be very close.

Every day, more of the World fell into shadow. Now, the only two places which remained untouched were the Archmage’s Tower in Frohiqui, and the Top of the World. It was clear that the world was ending.  
But there were a few pieces on the board which were wildcards, and could be played at any time—whether the world truly ended or not depended on the correct playing of those. These pieces were the Staff of Jotun, the Star of Scelerus, the Wand of Memory, the Arcturuses, and the Archmage himself.  
“There is no way I can think of that will guarantee the world’s survival,” Mithion said at length to the young, but surprisingly intelligent, girl who had come on behalf of an undisclosed organization whose purpose is to keep the world alive.  
“There are several chances, however, which are greater than expected,” said the girl. “It would be in your best interests to decide which is more convenient, would it not? Perhaps you must play these pieces in unconventional ways to achieve victory.”  
“Who, exactly, are you, if I might ask?” Mithion asked, certain the girl would refuse to answer. To his surprise, she gave him a response.  
“In your language, I am the living memory,” said the girl. “You may call me… Memory. Other details are irrelevant.”  
“It seems that the Arcturuses are arriving,” Mithion said. “Are you going to remain here, Memory, or will you be returning to your organization?”  
“My task is to record all that happens,” Memory said. “I must remain here. In addition, after all is said and done, I must retrieve the Wand—it is ours, and should never have been left here.”  
Mithion forced himself not to grimace as the Arcturuses entered. He forced himself to stay calm; now was not the time to let his opinions stop the thing that needed to be done.  
“Archmage,” said Arcturus the Fiftieth politely. “We have the Staff of Jotun, this Star, and this Wand. We’re ready to save the world.”  
“I do not see the Star of Scelerus,” Mithion said. Arcturus the Fifty-First excitedly showed it to him, “I have it!”  
“Give the three artifacts to me,” Mithion said, touching the sapphires in hiss circlet and drawing the magics from their facets. He took the Staff of Jotun in his left hand, the Wand of Memory in his right, and used magic to coax the Star of Scelerus onto the Staff’s tip. With a click, the two pieces were connected.  
“Now,” Mithion said, “we wait for Aum.”

The world was dead and lifeless, shadowy and corrupted. No one would want to live in a land like this, but Aum knew it would soon become a paradise—his paradise. He’d show that foolish Archmage. He’d show that betrayer. He’d show everyone that he was not to be cast aside as powerless. He was a mage, and he was powerful.  
Aum set the Vinterkrona on his head and smiled wickedly as he approached the glittering Tower. How was it still standing? No matter; now he was going to get the satisfaction of seeing his “father” fail, for the first time in his life since… ever. And Aum was going to love every second of it.  
He opened the heavy doors with a violent spell, and refused to take the stairs—he levitated, shooting up like a rocket, crashing through each floor until he got to the top one.  
“Look at you,” Aum said, eyeing Mithion. “You will die like that. Are you sure you want to remain a ghost, looking as you are? Or would you like me to deface you?”  
Mithion said, in Frohiqui’in, “I fear no one. Not even you. Especially not you. You see the things I hold in my hands? These things will make you fear me. Unless you stop this now. It is not too late to forgive yourself, and everyone else you have slain on this frenzy. Choose: either you forgive, or you lose everything.”  
“You cannot sway me with words, father,” Aum said in the Daemonic language. “You know that I am already dead. The only thing stopping me from making my paradise… is you.”  
“Vile tongued creature of darkness,” Mithion hissed in Frohiqui’in. “Let go. Or I will force you to.” His eyes burned with power.  
Aum raised his hand and formed a fist. Darkness swirled from it, consuming, destroying, ravaging…. In a matter of seconds, nothing was here but the ruins of a once-grand tower, and Mithion, Memory, the Arcturuses, and their companions, shielded by Mithion and Arcturus the Fiftieth’s barrier magics. Memory was unshielded, yet remained untouched.  
Mithion pointed the Staff of Jotun at Aum, and spoke the inscription written in the Star of Scelerus, three words: “You are cleansed.” The Star glowed with radiant light, pushing back the darkness, but only just.  
Now Mithion held Aum in place with an ancient spell and brought the Memory Wand close to Aum’s head. It glowed as it took its true form, shedding its embellishments and becoming a conduit of raw memory: a long, thin rod, crafted of chronosteel with a mnemonic core.  
The Memory Wand drank in all of Aum’s memories, allowing Mithion to see and alter them. He noticed straight away that he could not add new things to them, nor remove things from them; only change, only manipulate. He set aside all memories containing the Dream Eater and sent the rest back. Now, he began to sift through the memories here, altering any scene with the Dream Eater. Memory watched him work, motionless and expressionless, though a slight amusement shone in her eyes. He was doing something… wrong.  
Mithion cleansed Aum with the Star of Scelerus and froze him with the Staff of Jotun. When Aum thawed he would be free.  
“Now I shall take back my Wand, and I won’t lose it again,” Memory said. She took the Memory Wand and vanished in the blink of an eye, instantly—one moment she was there, the next, she was gone.  
Mithion thought for a while on what to do with the Star of Scelerus and the Staff of Jotun. He could return the artifacts to the Snow Elves’ vault, which would ensure their protection—as long as the Snow Elves kept watch over them. There were other options of course, but leaving the Snow Elves as caretakers seemed the safest.  
A mysterious force solidified before him as he attempted to move forward. It was as if the very air was forming an invisible wall.  
A voice echoed, “Do not go to the Snow Elves. There lies only peril, for as the rest of the World is healing, the Top of it is ailing, and they will not welcome you.”  
“Whom or what are you?” Mithion asked. The voice said, “You do not need to know. My warning—no, my command—remains: do not go to the Snow Elves.”  
“I won’t,” Mithion said, and attempted to move. He couldn’t. “Let me go.”  
“Once I dispel my wards, you will disobey and see the Snow Elves anyway. I know this, for I have already witnessed it. You mustn’t go; there lies only the destruction of the World. I must ensure that you cannot go there even if doing so means I must stand watch over you for the rest of your life.”  
“Show yourself,” Mithion commanded.  
“As you wish. Though, I am not responsible for the deterioration of your mind that will inevitably occur.”


	9. Who controls the puppets in a show without a master

The shadows gathered together, forming a new shape. That shape solidified, became three-dimensional and real. Now, standing before the Archmage was a being he could only describe as a horned one.  
He was tall, imposing, and he had no hands. His skin was dark teal and had a strange shine to it, the purple glow of his eyes reflecting off it. Twisting from his head, pushing back some of his long black hair, were two horns woven from fire, constantly burning, constantly shifting their forms. He wore a simple kimono, loose-fitting and revealing a strange zero symbol on his chest. His arms did not end in hands; rather, they were bleeding stumps; his hands were spectral and a few centimeters away from his arms, sheathed in unusual equations and indecipherable fractals.  
“Now will you acknowledge my command?” the horned one asked.  
“What are you?” Mithion asked.  
“I am something that you cannot begin to understand, even though you know many things,” said the horned one. “Enough questions—will you acknowledge my commands?”  
“I—yes.”  
“I am unconvinced,” said the horned one. A spectral hand reached out to Mithion and applied pressure, a subtle yet effective method of getting one to listen that was most common among incorporeal beings who sought contact with the corporeal. “Do not go to the Snow Elves, or you will set in motion something even worse than the events you have stopped here. Do you understand?”  
Mithion felt as if he was being ripped into many pieces. At length, he said, “Yes.”  
The horned one vanished as did all traces of his magic, and now Mithion was left wondering what he had just witnessed.

Lord Dukon, his Architect Stefan, the Vents, and all the builders gathered in the ruins of Krein and began to rebuild. The new castle Krein was better than ever before, a testament to the fact that any skill could be improved with practice, and though the work was long and hard, the results were worth all the effort.  
Gradually, his realm stabilized itself again, and the triumph of the Arcturuses and their champions was a legend retold in that land for ages to come.

But that did not mean that everything was healed.  
Even though most places had began to pick up the pieces of the fallen civilization, there were a few things that were impossible to regain.  
Arcturus the Fiftieth was one of them.  
As soon as the Dream-Eater was killed, Arcturus the Fiftieth fell into an unbreakable dream-state, one that sent him into a reality that was not fully realized yet. He saw visions of what was to come in this new reality, but it was far, far too much for even an Arcturus to handle, and he grew mad with this knowledge.  
Arcturus the Fifty-first was another thing that was lost. Though he was the most eccentric Arcturus there ever was, such eccentricity did not protect one from being cast into the shadows of his own apprentice. Des Magna Alkimia became Arcturus the Fifty-second, allegedly the greatest of them all, and Arcturus the Fifty-first… vanished.  
Many consider the historic land of Toussaint, the land of fine wines and vampires, to have been lost during this time as well. Though no records confirm this, none deny it either.  
The world was split into two branching paths now, and it was up to one person to decide which of these paths to go down.


	10. I have a secret to share

Secret words are inscribed here. This is their wording.  
In the house of the one  
We sing his song  
In the house of the one  
We believe in his lie  
We see glorious dreams  
And waking nightmares  
Through them we see  
The true purpose of  
YOU.  
The words begin to shift until they are unintelligible. Then, they make sense again, and this time their message is clear.  
Two paths, two branches, two choices. The first involves darkness and ice; the second involves dreams and questions. It is clear that both paths are explorable; one will only come later than the other.  
After this, the words disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this led into the other two (unfinished) sequels. Since those aren't done, this chapter could be considered irrelevant, but I put it in anyway.
> 
> Also, The End.


End file.
